


Not a Dawn in Eastern Skies

by DachOsmin



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: Blackmail, Crueltide, Csevet is pretty when he cries, Desk Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Sexual Slavery, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 08:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8971666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: “We bent your secretary over our desk and fucked him this morning,” Tethimar says to Maia with a lazy smile, voice as calm as if they’d been discussing the weather. “We wonder, did he ever moan so sweetly for you, Serenity?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aansero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aansero/gifts).



In truth, Csevet has been expecting the question since Maia first saw him recoil from Tethimar’s letter. And yet he still flinches when he hears it. “Will you tell us,” Maia asks, “why it is you fear Dach’osmer Tethimar?”

There is no judgement in his eyes, only gentle concern, and in that moment Csevet so dearly wants to tell him about Eshoravee.

This is why Csevet would die for Maia: he truly wants to know, and he would dole out no judgement if he knew the truth. Maia would take any pain from those around him, no matter how small, and add it to his own pile. Maia would care, even for the pains of an upstart _marnis_ courier. And this is why Csevet cannot tell him: Maia would take every hurt in the Empire if he could and drown under the weight of them. Csevet cannot allow it, not when he can carry this hurt himself.

“We do not fear him, Serenity,” Csevet murmurs. “But we thank you for your concern.”

And after a moment of hesitation Maia nods, and the conversation turns to other things. 

***

The summons from Eshevis Tethimar comes in the dead of night, not long after the Winternight Ball. Csevet is writing missives to the various dignitaries and functionaries that must be kept apprised of the emperor’s wishes in his study, the rest of the household having long since retired for the evening. It’s dull work, in truth, and thus he jumps at the chance to leave it when he hears a messenger has arrived for him.

And then he sees the Tethimada livery on the page boy’s breast and any relief he had felt at the respite turns to ash in his mouth. Swallowing, he carefully takes the missive from the boy, a slight elf who keeps his eyes trained on the ground and flinches away when Csevet draws near. He breaks the seal gingerly, as if it might explode like the _Wisdom of Choharo_ in his hands.

> _Mer Aisava,_
> 
> _We are desirous of a meeting with you, and would be most gratified if you would come to our chambers upon receipt of this message. It is regarding a matter of some import._
> 
> _Dach'osmer_ _Eshevis Tethimar, heir of Duke Tethimel_

Csevet swallows. Reads it again. “Did Dach'osmer Tethimar request a response?” he asks the page.

The boy won’t look at him, and upon further inspection seems to be trembling slightly. “We were told the message was… self-explanatory in that regard,” he murmurs, and Csevet feels a stab of sympathy because courier work is hard enough without having a monster as your employer. In any case, he’s sure those weren’t Tethimar’s words.

In the end Csevet answers the summons, though with no small amount of trepidation. Truly, he can think of no good reason that Tethimar would request his presence at such an hour and many sinister ones. But he is no longer a man beholden only unto himself, and if Tethimar is up to no good the Emperor deserves to know. And so with white knuckled hands and his heart in his throat, he follows the silent messenger out of the Alcethmeret, into the dark avenues of the palace.

His worry solidifies into concrete fear when Tethimar receives him not in the Tethimada audience hall but in his private study. The room is dressed to evoke a hunting lodge; the stone of the walls has been left rough beneath a bevy of horn trophies. When Csevet enters, Tethimar is sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, intent on a ledger. Despite the roaring hearth in the corner, Csevet suddenly feels freezing cold.

The door grinds shut behind him just as Tethimar looks up. Csevet stands still as the other man’s eyes slide up and down his body, lingering on the join of his hips and his neck, where Csevet’s collar has slipped down. He fights the urge to pull it back up.

Apparently bored of leering, Tethimar stands from his chair. He’s unsteady on his feet, and Csevet, desperate to look anywhere but at him, suddenly spies a jug of metheglin and a tumbler on the edge of the desk. The bottle is almost empty, and as Tethimar walks close enough that Csevet can smell the alcohol on his breath, he begins to realize that coming here tonight was a mistake.

His instincts are screaming that he should offer his apologies and leave, get out of this room that looks just like the claustrophobic corridors of Eshoravee, forget any of this happened. But he can’t: something is going on here and no matter how scared he is, he has to find out what poison this man is peddling, for the Emperor’s sake if not his own. And so he stays, frozen in place like a hart amidst the hounds, as Tethimar stalks closer on unsteady feet.

Tethimar stops a foot in front of him. He’s a well-built man with a head on Csevet; Csevet can feel his breath, wet with the tang of drink, on his forehead. He twists his head and stares fixedly at a spot on the far wall, hoping with every fiber of his being that Tethimar can’t hear his heart pounding in his throat. He won’t step back, he mustn’t: any ground he gives, Tethimar will take. And take, and take, and take.

“So kind of you to come, Mer Aisava.” Tethimar’s voice rasps around the words, like clockwork gone too long without an oiling.

His aunt in the diplomatic corps would slap him, but all Csevet can say is “What do you want?”

Tethimar reaches out to cup one of Csevet’s ears. His fingers are hot against Csevet’s skin. “We almost killed the Emperor at the Winternight Ball.”

Csevet opens his mouth but for once, has nothing to say. That the man would conspire to murder the emperor is no shock to him. But why summon him here? Why confess at all? And then Tethimar smiles and he realizes: this is no confession of a guilty conscience. This is something much worse.

“D’you know what stopped us?” Tethimar continues.

Csevet holds himself still, intimately aware that in this moment he is prey to whatever angry beast is lurking in Tethimar’s heart this evening. “We're sure we do not,” he says, voice bland, careful not to meet Tethimar’s eyes. 

Tethimar sways closer, whispers the word against his ear. “Thou.” 

The switch to the familiar tense hits Csevet like a punch in the gut, and it's all he can do not to sink to the floor because he knows with perfect clarity what Tethimar is going to say next. 

“The thought that if I slipped a knife into thy precious emperor’s gut and smeared blood and shit all over his white dresses, I’d never get to pay thee back for Eshoravee.” 

Because he knows. Of course he knows, how could Csevet have even imagined that he would forget? Csevet can't even forget, and he would love nothing more. But no matter how hard he tries, there are still the unlucky nights where he tosses and turns, trapped in the halls of Eshoravee. And every time he wakes screaming in the shadows before dawn, the sweat on his brow is an eerie reminder of the mountain rain.  

 He can’t keep from flinching inward at the memory, and as he sees the motion reflected in Tethimar’s hungry gaze he knows he’s already caught. “We assure you, we don’t know-“ 

Tethimar flings himself forward, gait uneven but quick. Csevet finally takes a step backwards, hands raising in front of his face to protect or deny, he’s unsure which- 

His back hits heavy into the cold stone of the wall. He thinks of the door beside him, now shut, and the window in the corner, now hopelessly out of reach.

Tethimar is watching him with a fierce smile hovering on his lips. He takes one step forward, two, until his chest is a mere handbreadth from Csevet’s head and his breath is hot on the tips of Csevet’s ears. He lays his hands on the wall on either side of Csevet's head, trapping him between them as neatly as a fox in a snare. 

" _I_ assure thee, thou dost know."  

"What do you want?" he finally asks. What else can he say? 

Tethimar favors him with a leer. "There are three companies of soldiers on the Tethimadeise border." 

"That’s not enough soldiers to take Cetho," Csevet bites out. His voice is high and breathy and he hates it because he knows this, he's sure of it. And yet he's still afraid. 

"Perhaps not. But enough to threaten it. Enough to call for the evacuation of the emperor. And who better to safeguard his departure than me?" 

Csevet manages a shaky laugh. "He won't ask you. He doesn't trust you." 

"And I have thee to thank for that, I'm sure. Didst thou tell him about Eshoravee? Didst thou tell him how thou cried?"  

It all comes crushing back: the hammering of his heart as he ran, the hollering of Tethimar's men behind him, the belief, certain as an arrow shot true, that that was the day he would die. And then he remembers how Maia had asked about Tethimar, and how he had gently deflected. 

Above him, Tethimar lets out a disbelieving chuckle. "Thou didst not tell him? What luck; he has no reason to think ill of me." 

Csevet can't stop the hysterical laugh that bubbles up. "He hardly needs our testimony to-" 

Tethimar casually backhands him, cracking his head back against the stone and sending a white burst of pain through his temples. 

"In any case, it matters not. Even if he refuses my help the city is indefensible. Thy precious emperor will need to evacuate, and the roads are so very treacherous this time of year. Accidents happen." 

"Why are you telling us this?" His voice is dull in his ears, because he already knows why. Tethimar is going to kill him, but can't resist one last indignity first. Torn between hysteria and terror, the absurd thought strikes him that Tethimar has been watching entirely too many plays. Every half-bit villain in every _michen-_ opera does this: wax lyrical about their evil plans, hopefully for long enough that the hero's brave animal companion has time to knock down a wall to rescue him. Except this is no fairy tale, and no one is coming to save him. Tethimar will slit his throat and dump his body in the Istandaärtha, and Maia will never find his body. 

Tethimar leans closer, so close that Csevet can feel his breath, hot and moist with drink, on the side of his cheek. "Why tell thee? Because I want to bargain with thee. Because I want to keep thee at my side," he purrs into Csevet's ear, voice like honeyed poison. "Tell thy beloved Emperor nothing is amiss; tell him thou hast chosen me over him. And I'll let thee live." 

Csevet blinks. Not what he was expecting. Tethimar mistakes his confusion for reticence. "Or perhaps not. The life of a common bred _marnis_ whore isn't worth much, even to its owner." 

He tilts his head. "Perhaps not thy life alone... but what about dear Maia's? I'll let him live. He's no matter to me once he's off the throne. He can rot in one of my mountain estates. I may even let thee visit him, once in a blue moon. Thou wouldst make a pretty picture with him, I can tell." 

Csevet schools his features to blankness, but inside his heart is racing. He doesn't believe for a second that Tethimar would allow Maia his life- no tyrant worth his throne keeps a challenger alive, and promises made to couriers are worth less than the breath it takes to speak them. 

But if Tethimar means to let Csevet live the night, and at least a handful of the nights to come, there will be time for him to find proof of this plot and bring it to his emperor. To Maia. 

"Not Eshoravee," he says, trying with every inch of his body to convince Tethimar that this is who he is, a wretched creature that is willing to trade on the small freedoms he's offered rather than fight back. "As long as you don't send him there." 

Tethimar lets out a low chuckle at that, strokes a hand through Csevet's hair in a parody of a lover's touch. "Not Eshoravee," he agrees, his voice the contented purr of a man certain he has already won. 

Swallowing, Csevet wills himself to nod. Mayhaps he can send a signal to Maia or the _nohecharei_ that something isn't right. If Tethimar is fool enough to let him live, Csevet will do everything in his power to bring these treacheries to light. He finds himself gritting his teeth. What Tethimar had done to Csevet was one thing- but to threaten the Emperor so. To threaten Maia.  

With the ease of long practice, he slips out from between Tethimar's arms and steps towards the door, only to freeze as Tethimar's hand snakes out to grab him by the tail of his braid. 

Tethimar eyes him with a lazy smile, a cat content its prey won't escape. "Wherever art thou going?" 

Csevet swallows. "To- to tell the Emperor. You just asked-" 

Tethimar cuts him off with a tsk, a parody of motherly concern. "At this hour? It would strain the bonds of propriety to call on our dear emperor so late." He grins suddenly, sharp like a drawn knife, and Csevet can feel the sides of his stomach caving in under the weight of his gaze. "No, we'll call on dearest Maia in the morning. Which means," and his grin grows wider still, "we have the whole night to ourselves." 

***

He expects Tethimar to lead him into the bedroom next door, but it seems a common-bred _marnis_ whore doesn’t deserve a bed.

Tethimar pushes him down against the desk instead.

He hears the click of Tethimar’s belt buckle, and tries, as he feels rough hands tear at his breaches, to remember the old prayers to Salezheio, patron of couriers. His heart is pounding against the cold surface of the desk, and he has to close his eyes, lest the room spin around him. Yet with eyes shut, his perception is reduced to the hands on his body, the rip of fabric being torn away.

The air is a cold shock against the bare skin of his thighs and buttocks, he can’t help but shiver. There’s a cold and clammy sweat blooming on his palms. _“_ Salezheio _,”_ he pleads, mouthing the word into the darkness like a talisman. _“May thy cloak cover me in the night, thy lantern guide me to my mark,_ Salezheio _, shield my path from evil-“_

Tethimar knots his hand in Csevet’s hair and shoves his head down hard onto the desk; Csevet yelps, losing his place in the prayer. “Methinks thou wertn’t quite paying attention,” Tethimar croons. “Let’s fix that.”

He hears the twist of a jar opening, and gasps as warm oil is drizzled between his cheeks. Tethimar had it warming in his pocket, some part of him realizes. He was planning this, from the moment he penned the message. “Never let it be said that I’m a cruel patron,” Tethimar murmurs as he smears the oil onto his cock. “In truth, this is more care than thou deserve, but I look after what is mine.”

It would be politic to remain silent, but Csevet has always had more fire than was prudent. “We are not _yours-“_

Tethimar slaps him hard across the buttocks, wrenching a gasp from him. “Close thy mouth or I shall put it to a better use.” Csevet falls silent, though he’s seething inside. When he finds proof of Tethimar’s treachery he’ll be arguing for high treason and an ignoble death. Gibbets haven’t been in vogue for three centuries or more, but for Tethimar he’d argue for their re-adoption. May the crows choke on him come springtime. The thought is all he has left to cling to.

Meanwhile, Tethimar’s index finger strokes up the pillar of his thigh and over his buttocks before pushing between them and pressing at his hole. He probes at the lip of it, and Csevet can’t help but gasp at the sensation of his callouses brushing over the rim. Tethimar chuckles at that, leans down to cover his back with the broad of his chest. “Thou hast not been breached in a while, unless I miss my mark. Or else thy emperor is a smaller man than me.”

Csevet bridles at that, begins to lift his head from the desk before Tethimar slams it down again. “He does not compel us, he would never-“ he grits out as best he can with his cheek pressed against the desk.

Tethimar retaliates with the blunt head of his finger, pushing it in forcefully so that Csevet can’t help but buck away from the intrusion. “Lies are a sin before the gods,” he croons. “How else would a common whore become an emperor’s secretary, else on his back?”

Csevet won’t argue, won’t bring Maia into this. He falls silent, a slave to the sensation of Tethimar’s rough fingers. The grain of the wood scratches at his cheek as he lays there and he can feel tears prickling in his eyes. His throat burns as he tries to swallow the tears away; he can’t bring himself to let Tethimar see him crying, see him breaking, see him _weak._

But then the blunt head of Tethimar’s cock is pressing at his entrance, and even with the oil it’s too much, too big. The girth feels like a sword cleaving him open as it pushes inside. He won’t cry out again, he won’t. Csevet bites into the flesh of his own arm, but he only manages to muffle the sound, a low and broken keening. 

Tethimar laughs at that, yanks at his hair once again so that Csevet is forced to open his mouth and throw his head back. The next thrust of Tethimar's cock hits a moment later and he cries out, back arched away from the intrusion but unable to escape it.

“Likest this, fox?” Tethimar grunts as he snaps his hips back. “Just thinkest, thou could have had me and all of my fellows at Eshoravee, one after the other, until thy lust was finally sated on our cocks.” He releases Csevet’s hair, moving his hands to his hipbones instead, where they clench down like vises.

Csevet can’t seem to muster the strength to keep his head up; it lolls forward, dripping snot and tears onto the desk. His nerves are on fire and he doesn’t know what hurts more: the searing pain where Tethimar has breached him, or the screaming in his heart.

Tethimar pushes in again, harder this time. “This is the cure for a boy who seeks to rise above his station. And _Maia,”_ he snarls, “may dress thee up in silks and feed thee from his own table, but this is all thou ever wert: a whore who drools at the sight of his master’s cock.”

And with that he begins to fuck Csevet in earnest, stabbing his cock forward like the thrusts of a sword. Csevet tries to pull away but he’s trapped between Tethimar’s body and the desk; there’s nothing he can do but lie still and take it. He no longer recognizes the sounds coming from his own mouth: a motley assortment of cries and half-voiced moans. He feels like a marionette in a michen-opera: jerked back and forth to the whims of another, utterly helpless.

The pain is terrible; he knows without looking that the slick of the oil is by now mixed with his blood. He’s breaking further apart with each thrust, new hurt being piled atop the old in a terrible rhythm. And there are the smaller hurts too, vying for attention from elsewhere on his body. He can feel the ache of bruises blooming on his knees where they slam into the desk, and also on his hips, where Tethimar’s viselike fingers press into his flesh. His skin is fire from head to toe, and no small part of him wishes it would alight in truth, that he might burn up and be spared from his suffering. For worse than any of the pain is his utter shame: his body, helpless to the brush of Tethimar’s cock over his prostate, has begun to respond.

Above him Tethimar’s grunts have become louder, his thrusts faster. Csevet wrenches his eyes shut and prays that the end is coming. He must do this. For Maia, he must survive this. But then he feels one of the bruising hands on his waist shift, tracing the crease of his hips down lower, lower.

“What a host would I be, if I withheld what thou so clearly desire.” And then there’s an oiled hand wrapping around his cock, too tight, just short of painful. He doesn’t want this, tries to hold still- but the thrusts of Tethimar behind him are fucking him forward, and the pressure of pleasure-pain is building in his balls no matter how much he tries to fight it. _Salezheio,_ he begs, _spare me this, at least._

Tethimar’s teeth sink into his neck as his thrusts fall out of rhythm, erratic and brutal in their force. Csevet hears him groan, feels him jerk behind him. And then Csevet is falling over the edge, his body betraying him in a mess of overstimulated nerves.

With a broken cry, he comes all over the desk before sinking into a broken heap on the floor. He lays there for a moment, panting and hoping his heart stops beating and spares him from what’s going to happen next.

Tethimar peers down at him, a cruel smile blooming on his handsome face. “Thou hast spilt the milk, foxling.”

He kicks Csevet hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. “Now lick it up.”

***

The walk to the Alcethmeret the next morning is as close to true torture as Csevet has ever known.  

Tethimar has clad him in the garb of the Tethimada, a brand-new set of robes of finer cloth than Csevet has ever owned himself. It is a gift one might give to a loyal retainer after decades of service in the office, or a favored pet after countless nights on his back. The clothes are exactly his size. 

Tethimar doesn't touch him, doesn't even look at him. Csevet finds himself almost wishing he would. To be dragged by his braids or his ears, tears staining his perfect silks, would be preferable to this- this complicity. But Tethimar refrains, and Csevet walks at his right-hand side, every inch the perfect retainer: steps in seamless counterpoint, eyes cast respectfully downward, dying inside. 

He is left alone with his thoughts, and with the drag of courtiers’ eyes over his body. He can feel where they linger, on the Tethimada device on his breast, on the fine cut of his silks, on his neck- 

Csevet takes a shuddering breath, trying to ground himself to the marble of the floor. 

The murmurs of his audience are too quiet to make out, but they hum around him like the incoming tide all the same. He doesn't need to hear them. He knows exactly what they're saying. 

Tethimar looks askance at him, face twisted in a mockery of concern. "Are you well? You seem pale." He lays a hand on Csevet's shoulder, where it presses cruelly against a bruise, already purpling beneath the silk of Csevet's mantle. A bruise he placed himself, with the heel of his palm as he pulled Csevet back on his cock in the early hours of the morning. 

Csevet swallows, tries and fails to hide the flinch of pain in his jaw. "Only tired, Dach'osmer. We are unused to such... exertions." 

Their audience titters at that, and Csevet knows from experience that everyone in the palace, lordling and scullery maid alike, will know of this by noon. 

Tethimar only smiles, every inch the gracious benefactor in his public manner. "We shall remember that in the future, darling." 

Despite the heat of his robes, Csevet can't help but shiver. He's spared from answering by a sudden hush from the crowd, broken only by footsteps, and the drag of white silk on marble. 

He dares to raise his eyes to the end of the hall, and there is Maia, resplendent in white, face marred with worry.  He moves closer so that they stand a mere stride apart. So close that Csevet could reach out and fall into his arms. And yet he may as well be standing on the Evresseian Steppes, for all the good it does him.

"We wished to speak with you, Serenity," he mumbles. _Half-wit,_ he thinks; he had already said as much in the letter Tethimar had dictated to him. But what else could he say? 

Maia's eyes flit to the courtiers milling about on the edges of the hall, all but the children trying very hard to feign an absolute disinterest in the proceedings. "But so publicly, Csevet? You know our rooms are always open to you, why-" 

"We wish to be released from your service," Csevet blurts out, because he has to do this quickly, or he never will. 

Maia's eyes widen, and Csevet sees the moment he registers Csevet's new robes, and the hulking presence of Tethimar at his side. Maia opens his mouth. Closes it. “Have we done aught to offend you?” he finally asks. 

He can see himself in the mirror on the other side of the hall: a statue garbed in the colors of the Tethimada, ice-white hair and skin only drawing attention to the ring of love-bites littering his neck and collarbone. He wishes more than anything that he truly were made of marble, that he could crack into pieces on the floor and be swept away with the other bits of trash that tend to collect in the corners of the court.  

"Nothing," he says, trying to maintain some semblance of aloofness, else he fall crying at Maia's feet. "Our reasons are… personal in nature." 

Tethimar lays an arm around his shoulders, and Csevet can tell without looking that he's grinning. "Very personal, if you take our meaning." 

Maia looks from Csevet to Tethimar, forehead wrinkled. "We had not realized you were... acquainted in such a way." 

 “Oh we are _acquainted,”_ Tethimar purrs.

“Dach’Osmer-“ Csevet snaps despite himself because this- hurting Maia like this, in front of half the court- this wasn’t part of the deal.

Tethimar’s grip on his shoulder tightens infinitesimally: a warning sign. He leans forward so that none of the courtiers might hear him, his words meant for Maia alone. “We bent your secretary over our desk and fucked him this morning,” Tethimar says to Maia with a lazy smile, voice as calm as if they’d been discussing the weather. “We wonder, did he ever moan so sweetly for you, Serenity?” 

Maia flushes scarlet, his ears pressing flat against his head. Yet his eyes stay fixedly on Csevet, sparing no glances at Tethimar despite his wanton words. "Are you sure this is what you want?" 

Tethimar's hand tightens even more, pressing against the bruises on his neck now. "Yes, Serenity," he whispers. The word feels like glass shards in his mouth. 

Maia nods stiffly, suddenly looking everywhere but him. And then Maia is walking away, his shoulders just an inch lower, his ears drooping just a hair. No one else would notice but Csevet notices because this is his _job._ He's spent the last span of months at the vanguard of Maia's protectors, spending every waking moment seeking threats to combat and ways to bring a smile to Maia's face. The wonderment in his eyes when he turns to Csevet with some thorny bit of etiquette and Csevet, like a magician, can provide a solution has always kindled a warmth in the center of his chest. Except now the tables have turned and he is the knot of thorns tearing at Maia's heart; he did this, he caused it, and he has no idea how to fix it. 

Maia suddenly stops and turns back to face him. Csevet's spirits rise despite everything, Maia has to have noticed that something is wrong. He can't just let Csevet go, not like this.  

"We will refrain from wasting more of your time. It is only that we wanted to say..." Maia takes a deep breath as if to steady himself. Cala and Beshelar share a glance behind him, and Csevet knows without words that they are planning how to comfort their charge once they take him back to the safety of the Alcethmeret. Away from him. 

“We are sorry,” Maia continues, and he sounds so small, so young, like a child cringing away from a slap. “We are sorry that we could not be the emperor you wanted us to be.” 

He bites his lip and Csevet realizes that this, not being raped on Eshevis’ desk, is what a dying heart feels like. 

“We hope… I hope thou art happy with him, at least.” 

Inside he’s screaming, and he doesn’t know if he’s ever going to stop. 

But he will, he tries to tell himself. He can end this. All he has to do is find proof of Tethimar's plots, and this nightmare can end. 

As the emperor walks away from him and the apologies he can't say, his _nohecharei_ follow. Cala avoids his eyes. Beshelar pauses, and for a moment Csevet's heart buoys because Beshelar understands about duty; surely he will hear what Csevet's heart is screaming, that this is all for Maia, everything he does is for Maia. 

Beshelar spits in his face. The saliva catches him on his left cheek just below his eye, the shock hits him lower, in his chest. It’s against every rule of propriety the _nohecharei_ follow, and Csevet almost can’t conceive of Beshelar, of all men, breaking the rules so freely. But then he meets his eyes and understands. Beshelar stares at him as if he would love nothing more than to beat Csevet to a pulp into the white marble tiles, and in that moment Csevet would fain to let him. Might beg for it, even. 

But then Cala is pulling at Beshelar's arm with gentle words too soft for him to hear, and Beshelar too walks away. 

As Csevet dumbly follows Tethimar back to his quarters, Beshelar's spit burns against his skin. He wants more than anything to bathe, wash the saliva and the shame from his body. But then Tethimar's hand encircles his and he knows, deep in the pit of his stomach, there are hurts to come that water won't begin to fix. 

*** 

In the days that follow, Csevet finds himself yearning for the anonymity of his courier leathers. To be no one is to be free, free to go anywhere. No one notices the boys in courier leathers as they slip in and out of studies and storerooms; though half the couriers in the operas are whores, the rest are spies. Truth be told, before he entered Maia’s service there were times Csevet himself had picked a paper from a desk for extra coin, and he knows all the old tricks: how to open and reseal a wax-closed missive without detection, how to pick a lock. If Tethimar were any other employer, Csevet would have had the secrets of his desk laid bare the day he walked in to the study.

But anonymity is a luxury Csevet no longer has. Tethimar is well acquainted with both sides of a courier’s reputation, and has planned for both.

When Tethimar leaves for meetings Csevet isn't meant to witness, he ties him spread-eagled to the bed with leather horse leads. The ropes burn and chafe at his skin, almost as much as the averted gazes of the Tethimada servants that come and go, stoking the fire and sweeping the floors in icy silence.  

The first time Tethimar ties him so, Csevet almost manages to twist his wrists through the lashings.  He waits with bated breath until the servants leave and then spirals his wrist furiously, feeling for give in the bindings. The left hold fast, but the right- a bit of give. He pulls at it, sawing his weight against the knot and praying to Salezheio, to Csaivo, to anyone that will listen. As sweat begins to bead on his brow he feels a sliver of rope slip through, then another-

And then Tethimar returns from his meeting.

From then on, Csevet is made to drink a bitter brew that leaves him floating through a haze of evil dreams whenever Tethimar leaves the apartments. More often than not he rouses to waking nightmares: his spread-eagled body crushed between Tethimar's knees, the blunt head of Tethimar's cock pressing into his abused hole. It’s in these moments that he thinks he might die like this, yearns to pray for it, even. But he dare not speak Ulis’ name, for he cannot die: he has to live, he has to warn Maia.

***

It’s ten days into his captivity when Tethimar finally errs.

He stumbles back from some raucous party in the wee hours of the morning, stinking of metheglin and musk. He unties Csevet enough to have his way with him and then collapses into a rough sleep after coming across Csevet’s back.

Csevet stares at the ceiling as the semen cools on his skin, hardly daring to breathe. He counts out a prayer to Salezheio and as Tethimar’s snores deepen, does it again.

As he comes to the end of his fourth count, he finally gathers the courage to sit up and pick the knots free of his ankles. Then, with a last hurried glance at Tethimar, he slides from the bed and steals into the study. The window that overlooks an outside corridor is open, sending in a draft to chill the stone against Csevet’s feet. He shivers quietly and looks around.

A benefit of being fucked across most surfaces in the room, he supposes, is that he sees where Tethimar throws his notebooks when he needs them out of the way. No matter how eager he is to bend Csevet over, the ledgers always go in the mahogany cabinet behind the desk. Csevet creeps over and tries the handle. It’s locked of course, but he is a courier and no trifle of clockwork is going to stand in his way.

He grabs a pen nib from the desk, twists it into a pick. Biting his lip in concentration he leans closer, searching for the keyhole in the dark. And then his stomach lurches when he sees the mechanism.

The lock has no keyhole. It’s all clockwork, silver and brass, with a smooth pad in the center. He’s seen these once or twice before, on the safes of the richest merchant houses. The plate is alchemical glass; it will open only with the bearer’s fingerprint. For a brief moment of hysteria, he entertains the notion of hacking Tethimar’s hand off with the pen nib and dragging it over.

He forces the panic down as quickly as it came. There’s no time for it. Looking back to the cabinet, he feels around the lock, searching for any seams or screws that might be pried apart. But there’s nothing. No pick will open this.

And yet… he presses his palm against the panel on the front, raps as firmly as he dares on the wood. Despite the pains in his body, he can’t help but grin. It’s a thin veneer of mahogany over plywood. Trust a lord to buy a lock worth its weight in gold and put it on a fruit crate. One good blow with the side of his hand will splinter the door wide open.

He glances back into the bedroom, where Tethimar still sleeps. This will wake him. He judges the distance between the cabinet and the door to the bedroom; perhaps he can pick the lock of the door to the outside hallway first, then open the cabinet and run past the bed before Tethimar-

He hears stirring in the next room. “What-?”

There’s no time for lock picking or creeping about anymore, there’s only time to move. Heart in his throat, he makes a split decision and punches his fist through the center of the cabinet, ignoring the shriek of splintering wood. There’s a yell from the bedroom but he barely registers it, too intent on grabbing the two notebooks nestled inside and tearing them through the hole in the wood. The shards rip his forearm into ribbons and the wood is sticky with his blood. But what’s one more hurt, at this point? He has eyes only for the notebooks. They’re the only things in the cabinet and if there’s something incriminating to be found, it should be in there. It has to be.

“Thinkest thou- thinkest-“

He whirls around to see Tethimar stumble into the room, rage darkening his features. He stares at Csevet from the other side of the desk, and Csevet abruptly realizes that if he is caught, he’s not going to survive the night. He glances at the doorway behind Tethimar, and the door to the hallway just past it. He could make it, he thinks, if he ducks- but is it locked? Would Tethimar have remembered to lock it on the way back from the party?

Too risky, too risky. That leaves the window.

He feints to the right and when Tethimar drunkenly lunges after him, spins and dashes for the windowsill. Curling the notebooks against his chest, he jumps.

It's only one floor down but he falls wildly, too drunk on fear to curl himself the way he should. The marble mosaics of the hall are utterly unforgiving beneath him. He lands hard, his left wrist and right foot bearing the brunt of the impact. He hears the clean snap of his wrist like a breaking flower stem, feels the pain shoot up his leg as his ankle buckles beneath the weight of his landing. And beneath these pains there are the smaller ones, the shriek of his muscles and the tear of skin as all of the cuts and bruises Tethimar had dealt are torn open again in the violence of his fall. 

But above him Tethimar is shouting, and he can hear the pounding of feet on stone. Black spots dancing across his vision, vertigo churning his stomach, he does the only thing he can. He runs. 

Later, he will say he has no memory of the chase. And indeed perhaps some miracle took place that he isn't meant to recall, for he shouldn't have managed it: a half-starved boy two gasps from death should not have escaped an elvish duke's honor guard in their own quarters.  

But Csevet knows the warrens, knows the spaces that no lordling ever goes. He knows what it's like to run for his life, from men who would face no punishment no matter what they did to him.  

He remembers the chase in flashes of marble, in the sound of his own panting breaths, in the waves of pain from his ankle that threaten to drown him. He blacks out at least twice that he can remember. 

But somehow Ulis stays his hand, and then the Alcethmeret is looming large in his vision, and wonder of wonders, Maia and his _nohecharei_ have just stepped outside. 

"Serenity," he gasps, throws the notebooks forward. And faints at Maia's feet. 

***

Screaming, the clang of steel on steel.

- _call the physicker-_

He’s back in Eshoravee, perhaps he never left. He can hear the grunting of the hounds, a terrible cacophony that shivers at his bones as he runs. He runs and the hounds chase him. They follow him down corridors and up hallways, the stone of the mountains closing in on him from all sides. Their eyes burn red in the mist like some infernal clockwork. Their teeth are knives, their baying an unholy chorus.

- _he’s burning up-_

He thrashes away from the hounds but his body is torpid and slow; his limbs do not respond as they should. They’re a weight on his chest and a fire in his lungs. He never learned to swim, but this is what he imagines drowning feels like. A haze and a helplessness, and above it all: Eshevis Tethimar laughing, everywhere and nowhere at once, so that his voice fills every corner of the maze and there is no escaping it-

- _hush, please-_

The mountain air is cool on his brow. He tastes sweet water on his lips.

_-art safe, please-_

Soft silk on his skin. The hounds fade into a white numbness. _Salezheio,_ he thinks. Sleep takes him.

***

Csevet wakes in a strange bed. His limbs are propped up on a bevy of eiderdown pillows, and he’s swaddled in a white silk blanket embroidered with heron feathers. As consciousness returns to him he braces for the hurts he knows are waiting in the wings but is met with a delicious numbness instead, a warmth that lingers in his joints and sets him floating.

A minute or an hour later, he has the presence of mind to look around. The room is well appointed, and cast in honeyed shades by late afternoon light streaming through the windows. He tries to remember the last time he saw the sky and finds he can’t recall. How long has he slept?

He tries to sit up but the task feels gargantuan, and he can lift himself no more than a handsbreadth before falling back into the pillows with a grunt.

“Don’t strain yourself.”

He turns his head to the side and there is Maia: huddled at the side of the bed under the weight of a dressing gown, cradling a mug of tea in his hands. He looks terrible; his hair hangs in lank braids half-undone and his eyes are hooded under the weight of at least one sleepless night. Csevet wants nothing more than to reach out to him, ease whatever tension he’s holding. But as he tries to meet his eyes Maia looks away.

“You are in a spare chamber in the Alcethmeret. We were not sure where your quarters were, and in the confusion, no one could tell us. So we brought you here. We hope it is to your liking.”

Of all the things on his mind, the décor of a spare Imperial residence takes low priority. “It is… fine, Serenity,” he croaks.

Maia nods once in response, and they lapse back into silence. Csevet steals another glance at Maia. His back is ramrod straight, and he is most decidedly not looking at Csevet. “Serenity-“

“Eshevis Tethimar is being held on counts of attempted murder and high treason. The courts have not finished deliberating, but we expect that the verdict will be for his execution.”

He almost cannot believe it; ever since Eshoravee the Tethimar of his nightmares has been a figure larger than life. That he will meet his end as simply another mortal, bent to imperial justice just like any other citizen that breaks the law… “ _Good_ ,” he says, his vehemence surprising even himself.

And at that, Maia finally explodes. “No it is- it is not good!”

His fervor shocks Csevet, and he suddenly realizes that Maia is holding on by a thread right now. “Serenity-“

“No,” Maia snarls, “You will- you will listen to us in this. We let you part from us though it hurt like a mortal wound. We were sick with the thought that you no longer wished to be at our side. And then, as we went to pray to the Goddess to help us steady our mind and accept your decision, you stumbled out of the darkness and fainted, naked and bleeding, at our feet- with an army on your heels, no less! And we have sat here as you screamed in your sleep, we have wiped your brow and feared you would not wake, and our mind has gone to so many dark places in the night.” He’s shouting now, each word coming in a ragged gasp. He looks away from Csevet, his jaw trembling. “We truly don’t know which thought is worse: that you went to him honestly and were betrayed thus, or that you did all of this on purpose, knowing what it would come to.”

His pauses, and that is answer enough. “Serenity, you were in danger-“

“Do not ‘ _Serenity’_ me, not now!” His voice drops to a pained whisper. “They would not let us in the room with the physicker, but we are no child, no matter what you think. We know what evils lurk in the heart of men, or can guess. When we think of what you suffered, for us…”

“It was worth it,” Csevet tries.

Maia lets out a hysterical laugh. “Worth it?” There’s a dull flush of anger staining his cheeks, his knuckles are white where they grip the sheets. Csevet doesn’t think he’s ever seen Maia so angry. “Just because we are Emperor-“

And maybe it’s the drugs in his system, maybe it’s the shock of seeing Maia so pained but- “I didn’t do it because thou art emperor,” he blurts, and there it is.

Maia, bless his heart, is too caught up in his anger to notice. “Then why in the name of Csaivo would you do such a thing?”

“I did it,” he says steadily, holding Maia’s gaze, “because thou art Maia.”

Maia opens his mouth, closes it. “Oh,” he says, and his voice sounds so very small that Csevet wishes he had the strength to pull him into his arms. And then Maia is reaching out to him, resting a hand on his wrist, as if afraid that Csevet might break apart beneath him. Csevet might, truth be told. “I am still wroth at you,” he finally says, eartips pinkening.

To be honest, Csevet is too high on the heady combination of Maia’s touch and the drugs to care overmuch. “I’ll make it up to thee.”

Maia is still flushed, but perhaps not only from anger now. “Yes. Yes thou wilt.” He nods to himself, as if coming to a decision. “And thou wilt do it by resting here, and drinking broth by my hand and letting thyself heal. And swearing by all thou hold dear that thou wilt not leave me again for any reason, unless thou wish it.”

“As my emperor commands,” Csevet says with a smile.

“I do not ask it as thy emperor,” Maia murmurs, rubbing circles on his wrist.

And Csevet replies, “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> We freely admit we are a terrible person, but we were most inspired by your letter. We hope that you enjoy this late Winternight present and have a lovely Yuletide!
> 
> Many, many thanks to Airotkiv for all the help!


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